


art imitating (irritating) derek

by stilinskisparkles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Artist Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Security Guard Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 03:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7601734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilinskisparkles/pseuds/stilinskisparkles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This person, this <i>insane</i> gallery obsessed vandal has been making a mockery of Derek for too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	art imitating (irritating) derek

“Damn,” Boyd snaps his gum, circles behind where Derek’s crouched and clucks his tongue. “He got you good this time.”

Derek sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose as he glares down at the glittery foot prints leading across the floor to one of their perhaps more…  _boring_  paintings. Or, at least, Derek with no eye for art, and no taste at all according to Erica, would call it boring.  _It’s just a canvas painted blue._  He maintains it’s not exactly interesting. He can tell the little shit that’s been winding their security team up for a month thinks the same because  _glittery footprints_. They’re making a mockery of the painting. This person, this  _insane_  gallery obsessed vandal has been making a mockery of Derek for too long. 

Originally, he’d thought Boyd and Isaac were winding him up. When he’d revealed he wanted to move from security to the police force; he’d thought they were setting up tricks to test his detective skills. 

A top hat on a bust of Shakespeare by the staircase leading to the first floor. 

White chalk etched into the floor in the shape of a body beneath a painting of a small girl holding an axe. 

A stuffed tiger toy sitting beside a landscape portrait of a jungle. 

One morning, Derek came in to discover fake moustaches attached to each of the photographs of the gallery’s employees. Derek’s photograph had also been given additional eyebrow fuzz, and a gigantic pink heart around it. Erica declared the accessories an improvement. She’s kept all of the additions this individual’s been leaving after dark. 

Derek’s not sure if he’s thankful the gallery’s curator is both his best friend, and seems to find the antics hilarious— she’s also pointed out it’s been very good for business— or, if he should be worried she’s secretly in on it. 

Boyd and Isaac were very quickly cleared of the crimes, sitting in the office with him one evening and on heading home, they walked into a trail of confetti all along the gallery floor. None of them had moved all evening— they’d been in an intense poker game, eyes vaguely on the security screens and mostly on one another— and so, it had to be an outside source. 

Erica thinks it’s a scream. She’s reported all the misdemeanour’s to the newspaper, repeating the name Banksy more than once in the hopes of attracting more of the curious public to the gallery. 

Derek’s determined to get to the bottom of it. 

He stands, eyes still on the footprints, “D’you think they’re his own shoes?”

“We’re assuming it’s a he?” Boyd shakes his head, “Erica’d have your balls for saying that, man.”

Derek rolls his eyes, “Fine, d’you think it’s their own shoe print?”

“Why?” Boyd smirks, “You wanna make a copy, follow the general public around demanding they lift up their feet to let you check? There’s a reason Prince Charming didn’t go round people’s houses admitting he had a foot fetish  _himself_ , Derek, man.”

"No,” Derek huffs, “But, maybe— if I could study the print, I might see some shoes that look familiar—”

“They’re sneaker prints,” Boyd says flatly, “Ninety per cent of the population is now guilty of glittering you.”

“Not just  _me_ ,” Derek seethes, “The whole gallery. Why aren’t you more bothered by this?!”

Boyd shrugs, “It’s kind of awesome.”

"They’re vandalising, they’re sneaking around right under our noses! We have to find them!” He declares crossly, and  _loudly_ ; several tourists admiring a quaint painting of a rose garden turn to stare at him. Derek scowls back, and they look hastily away. 

Boyd snorts, claps him on the back, “You got issues.”

“ _You’ve_  got issues,” Derek snaps back. 

“A resounding come back,” a familiar voice drawls from behind them, and Derek twists to see Stiles sauntering towards them, sketchbook in hand and a smirk on his face. He looks down at the footprint, and Derek sees the twitch of a smile as he begins to shake his head. 

“Damn.”

“Shut up,” he huffs, stepping away from the mess and wishing he could get permission from Erica to mop it all away. They’re a stupid,  _sparkly_  reminder he’s not doing his job as well as he should be. 

“From now on, the overnight shifts are going to be on patrol instead of monitoring,” he tells Boyd. “We’ll need more security cameras; something over here,” Derek points into the corner, nodding to himself, “We need to be on top of this, constant vigilance.”

Beside him Stiles cracks up, and Derek snaps his head to glare at him. 

Stiles clears his throat, nods seriously, “No more Mr Nice Guy.”

“Exact— oh, fuck off.”

“Hey!” Stiles begins laughing again, following Derek as he stalks through the gallery, “I think it’s cute you’re gettin’ all twisted up about this, dude; it shows you  _do_  care. You have a heart!”

Derek yanks Stiles’ sketchbook from him, swats his side with it, “I’ll show you a damn heart.”

"Yeah,” Stiles bites his bottom lip, wiggles his eyebrows at Derek, “Harder.”

He shoves the sketchbook back at Stiles with a flush creeping up his face. Over the years he and Stiles have known one another, Stiles has gone from being the oddly adorable, curious kid that believed everything Derek said to be law— which his sister always found hilarious— to a ridiculously hot twenty year old art student that lives to needle at anything Derek says, now. He longs for the days his ten year old self declared Batman lame, and Stiles nodded along in the agreeable way six year olds do. These days, if Derek were to utter a bad word about Bruce Wayne, Stiles would shred his opinion to pieces and leave Derek both irritated and alarmingly turned on. 

It’s just something to do with the way he talks; it’s alluring is all. He does it with his whole body, and his face lights up when Derek snarks back at him. He can’t help himself. 

Except that he has to, because he wants to be a police officer, and that would make Stiles’ father Derek’s  _boss_. 

So, they dance on the line between casual banter and flirtation, and Derek doesn’t push, doesn’t even want to risk finding out if Stiles is keen for him to push. He’s safe in the bubble of not knowing. 

Not knowing who this damn vandal is, though. It’s driving him crazy. 

“Maybe it  _is_  Banksy,” Stiles muses as Derek sits down at the front desk. He lounges over it, whole body stretched out in what he _must_ know is an appealing sight. He must _know_ he drives Derek crazy.

Derek huffs, “‘The hell would Banksy be doing in Beacon Hills?”

Stiles hunches up a shoulder, runs his finger along the top of the computer and Derek stares resolutely at the screen and not at the long, slender digit caressing his damn computer. 

"Maybe he likes the scenery.”

“The trees,” Derek says flatly, “And a whole lot of abandoned buildings.”

“Just his kind of place, lots of walls to make beautiful and thought provoking art,” Stiles points at him, winks. “Just up his alley, _so to speak_.”

“Don’t you have pictures to be copying?”

Stiles clutches his chest, starts backing away from the desk, “Ouch, dude, I do so much more than copy! Last week, I drew a really beautiful picture of a girl lost in admiration upstairs, look,” he flicks open his sketchpad, waves it at Derek. 

Derek glances down at where there’s a scribble of a girl sitting on one of their long benches, staring down at her phone. He snorts, flips the book shut, “Heathens.”

“I’m gonna compile a selection of my favorite visitors,” Stiles tells him, “And their awestruck appreciation of art.”

“Modern times,” Derek says loftily, just to wind Stiles up, “They can look at the pictures on their i Phones, instead.”

“How am I supposed to pay rent if no one gives a shit about art, anymore?” Stiles sighs, bites his lip again, and it’s aggravating how he can switch from delighting in winding up Derek, to stupidly sincerely beautiful in less than a second.

“Marry rich,” Derek says eventually. 

Stiles snorts, “Yeah, unlikely, considering there aren’t even any poor, or even interested takers.” He hums thoughtfully, scuffs his foot against the desk and Derek eyes his sneaker suspiciously for a moment. Stiles catches his gaze, and suddenly his smile is back, “Oh my god, d’you wanna check the sole for glitter?”

“No,” Derek huffs, “Of course not.”

“If our very own Banksy is smart, he’d have worn different shoes,” Stiles smirks, “At least, that’s what I’d do. I mean, what if you start tracking glitter round the supermarket last thing at night, and realize you’re gonna give yourself away— get hundreds of pounds of angry Derek Hale leaping at you for vandalism,” he pretends to shudder, and Derek flips him off. 

“Goodbye, Stiles, go do some actual work.”

Stiles gives him a salute, gaze lingering on Derek for a moment as he backs away, wetting his lips as he does so. 

It’s almost enough to distract Derek for a good half an hour. 

*

“Fish,” Derek says flatly. 

Isaac gazes at the bowl of goldfish in the middle of their Renaissance room. “Yep.”

“ _Fish_.”

“Mhm.”

“This one doesn’t even have a point!” Derek is furious. He was five minutes behind Banksy— dammit, the name really is stuck in his head, now— and he  _still_  missed him. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t hear anything,” Isaac says loftily, and Derek glowers at him. 

“I was three rooms away, am I supposed to have ninja hearing, now?”

Isaac ignores him, eyes the fish, “What are you gonna do with them?”

“Me? Why do  _I_  need to do anything with them? Erica wants to keep all the damn presents he’s been leaving us, exactly as they are.”

"But, they’re fish,” Isaac hunches over to look at them more closely, “They need feeding and shit.”

Derek sighs, pained, and scoops the bowl up, glares at the two innocent goldfish swimming around inside. God, they have it so easy. 

“I’ll take them home, Jesus, stop giving me sad eyes.”

“They could be your friends,” Isaac suggests teasingly, “You need some.”

“Here I thought I’d be stuck with you for company for life,” Derek retorts drily, “How fortunate for me to have found a better source of conversation,  _silence_.”

Isaac flips off easily, nods at the security camera, “Did you see anything?”

Derek shakes his head, “Nope, it cuts out at quarter to one, then comes back on at one.”

"Wow,” Isaac whistles, and Derek shoves the bowl under his arm, begins heading back to the front desk, “They’re good.”

“No, they’re getting cocky, I’m going to find them.”

“Sure,” Isaac sticks a lollipop in his mouth, gives Derek a condescendingly sympathetic smile, “You sure will.”

“I hate you.”

“I can live with it,” Isaac says sombrely. Derek punches him on the shoulder, and goes to make a strong coffee. 

At five, he makes his way over to the Sheriff’s department, goldfish in tow. He’s been ignoring jibes from Isaac about naming them all afternoon. Dick. 

“Derek!” The Sheriff stands from his desk, and Stiles half falls out of the chair he’d been lounging on beside him, standing with his father. 

“You… bought some pals?”

“Yes,” he says seriously, narrowing his eyes at Stiles, “Problem?”

“Stiles had an imaginary friend until he was thirteen,” John tells him, and Stiles’ smirk vanishes to be replaced by a very attractive looking flush. Derek feels much better about his lack of sleep, and the fish under his arm all of a sudden. 

“I just thought I’d drop by to talk about my exam next month.”

“Yes, yes,” John claps him on the shoulder, begins guiding him out of the room, but gestures back to the desk, “Stiles can look after the fish, right, son?”

Stiles winces, makes a show of pulling a concerned face, “Oh, I don’t know if I’m up to the task, dad, you know, _fish_. Like, how will I survive with them? What will I talk to them about? What if they leap out of the bowl, onto the floor and start flopping around in a threatening manner? What will I, a poor defenceless soul, do then?”

John rolls his eyes, “Give him the fish, Derek.”

“I’m not sure I should,” Derek smirks, “Seeing as how Stiles is so afraid of them. I don’t want to make him cry like that time I spooked him on Halloween.”

“That was ten years ago! And you leapt out of the trees and scared the shit out of me!” Stiles cries hotly, “I still haven’t forgiven you for it.”

“Seem like you have.”

“Have not,” Stiles folds his arms over his chest defiantly, “In fact, if you leave those fish with me I might just flush them down the toilet and get my revenge. At long last.”

“Terrifying,” Derek widens his eyes in mock horror. 

The Sheriff clears his throat, and both of them jump, “Shall we?” He asks with a smirk of his own, “Or, should I give you both another minute to keep jabbering at each other?”

“No, Sir,” Derek says quickly, scowling at Stiles behind the Sheriff’s back when he cracks up at Derek’s use of the word  _sir_. He’s just being polite, little shit, he’ll get him back later. 

“Don’t worry,” Stiles takes the bowl from Derek, “I’ll dust the glass for prints, see if anything comes up on the data base.”

The wink he gives Derek doesn’t do anything to Derek’s insides, _at all_.

*

Five days later, and Derek’s beginning to wonder if maybe Banksy’s lost his nerve. Or, _her_ nerve.

Maybe it  _was_  Erica. Maybe now they’re a lot busier, and people are less interested in their phones and the gift shop, and more interested in the art, she doesn’t need the pranks any more.

He finishes his tour of the third floor, glancing casually out of the window, when he spots movement in the courtyard below. Quick as a flash, he’s racing down the stairs, footsteps loud and echoing through the empty gallery. The glass doors swish open, and then Derek’s striding out into the courtyard, flicking his flashlight around.

“Hello?”

There’s not a sound, all Derek can hear is his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, the low hum of traffic beyond the fence surrounding the place.

“I’m gonna call the cops,” he says casually, stepping towards the small pool and fountain they have on display. “And, I swear to you Sheriff Stilinski will not be happy to have to be dealing with a trivial offense like breaking and entering when he has paperwork to be doing.”

His eyes fall on the pool, and he frowns, steps closer when he notices it’s not the right color. There’s a beat as he looks down at it, and then lights flood on around him, and he ducks on instinct. Nothing happens.

When Derek straightens up, he takes in hundreds of pink and purple fairy lights, and he sees that the pool water is pink, and the fountain is spraying gold glitter.

“For fuck’s sake,” he growls, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Is this supposed to be funny?!”

There’s a snort of laughter from the bushes, and Derek strides towards it.

“Hey!”

He follows the scrambling, chasing after shadows through the bushes until he reaches the fence and there’s no one there.

A note stuck to the fence reads **better luck next time**. Derek crumples it in his fist.

Fucker.

*

“I think it looks pretty,” Stiles declares from where he’s sprawled across the floor, chewing on a snickers bar the next day. He’s supposed to be drawing, but Derek’s fairly sure he’s spent the last ten minutes on his facebook app—he keeps liking old pictures of Derek and Laura on their vacation a few years ago—Derek wishes he didn’t look so damn sunburnt.

“It’s a statement,” he grumbles, “A gigantic _fuck you_ to me.” He taps his forehead against the glass of the window, glaring down at the still bright pink pool.

“Maybe it’s not a fuck you, and more of a… romantic gesture!” Stiles snaps his fingers, “Maybe they’re trying to woo you.”

“By breaking into my place of work, and vandalising art.”

“I thought you said half of it wasn’t art,” Stiles sniffs.

“It’s still under my protection.”

Stiles’ mouth quirks, and he begins to snigger—there’s something fond in there, and something warmly familiar—it doesn’t help that Stiles is laughing at him, though.

“Sorry,” he says after a moment, obviously picking up that Derek’s offended, and trying not to show it. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think they’re doing it to mock you. I think they’re making a statement.”

“About what.”

“Art.” Stiles shrugs, glances at his hands, “Maybe they feel like they’re not reaching anyone, maybe they need more, maybe—”

Derek moves to stand in front of him, and Stiles peeks up through his lashes—it’s a very pretty sight—Derek tamps down on that thought immediately.

Stiles licks his lips.

Derek stamps on more thoughts.

“I think everyone likes to be seen, man. I get that, like, I spent so long not being seen at school, and by Lydia, by you—” he coughs into his hand, “I just mean, we’re friends, now, right?”

Derek nods his head.

“See?” Stiles hunches up a shoulder, “If you weren’t working with my dad, if you weren’t around my dad specifically, you wouldn’t see me.”

“Who says that’s true?”

“Because—” Stiles waves a hand at him, “Laws of the universe, I was just the annoying kid that followed you around, and then you came home from college all—all—”

“All what,” Derek huffs, suddenly terrified Stiles is going to say something awful, something about his personality that Stiles no longer enjoys, or wants to keep following—Jesus, fuck he doesn’t need to have an existential crisis about why he needs Stiles around when Stiles is right here.

Save it for later, Derek, Christ.

“Hot,” Stiles finishes, “And, I’m not.”

Derek arches an eyebrow at him, gaze sweeping over his lithe form, his tight t-shirt spattered with paint at the hem, his strong arms, broad shoulders, a face Derek thinks he’d dedicate whole sketchpads to if he could draw. He snorts derisively, and Stiles looks hurt; misinterpreting Derek’s reaction.

“Gee, thanks.”

“No,” Derek rolls his eyes, kicks at his foot, “You’re not without your merits, don’t fish.”

Stiles grins suddenly, “Hey, how are the fish.”

Derek sighs, “I gave them to Erica, for Giselle to have.”

“Aw,” Stiles’ face softens, “You’re so nice underneath the angry, _must kill all vandals_ facade, dude.”

“She’s my god daughter,” Derek argues, feeling his cheeks getting hot, “I just thought she’d like them.”

“I’m sure your vandal would be happy to know they went to a good home.”

“He’s not _my_ vandal,” Derek huffs.

“Maybe not,” Stiles says easily, picking at his shirt, “But, I still think you’re missing the point.”

“Which is?”

“They’re not mocking you, dude, it’s about the art.”

“It’s not art!”

*

Erica has an important party from New York visiting on Friday, and Derek is made to promise that he finds the vandal’s additions to the gallery acceptable.

Not only does he have to encourage the belief they have a new Banksy in their midst, he has to pretend like it’s not making him steam inside.

Fucking artists and art lovers with their belief people should express themselves no matter the cost.

Derek glares at his coffee as Erica taps round the first floor, waving a hand at one of their newer paintings by Nicola Giviths.

“She wants to buy that one,” Boyd tells him, nudging their shoulders together and jerking his head at the painting. “Nicola says she’ll sell, too.”

Derek hums, “You like it?”

“I guess,” Boyd scrunches up his face, “It’s a picture of sunflowers, my baby girl’s got better skills if you ask me.”

“Everything Giselle paints is beautiful,” Derek says loyally.

Boyd grins, slides his thumb across his phone to show Derek a picture of Giselle covered in paint and waving her hands at the camera. “She got Stiles to come over and have an art day on Saturday. She wants to paint a mural of the beach on her wall, damn Stilinski giving her ideas.”

“The beach sounds kinda nice,” Derek muses, “You could bury Stiles up to his head in sand.”

Boyd laughs, shakes his head, “Nah, he could still talk that way.”

“He does have a mouth on him,” Derek says in a dark voice.

“Don’t,” Boyd makes a pained expression, “I get the dramatic retellings of your interactions with him from Erica at home, I don’t need them from you, too.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“It was implied,” Boyd gives him a pointed look, “And, your eyebrows say it all anyway, man.”

“I regret ever allowing my sister to tell you that dumb code about my eyebrows, there isn’t a code, they don’t have their own language!”

“What don’t?” Stiles throws himself over the desk, helps himself to some of Derek’s coffee, “’You talkin’ about?”

“Derek’s eyebrows,” Boyd supplies, because he’s a traitor like that.

Stiles’ face lights up, “They _are_ a work of art.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Derek huffs, “They are not.”

“How do you define art then?” Stiles’ tone is casual, but his eyes are sharp as they look at Derek. It makes him feel stupidly naked.

“I’m not qualified to make that sort of comment,” he hedges.

Stiles snorts, “Disallowed.”

“Fine, I don’t know… pretty?”

“Are you asking? Or, giving me your opinion?” Stiles looks at him expectantly, and Derek can feel Boyd vibrating with silent mirth beside him. Under the desk, he kicks at his shin.

“Paintings of fields, people, flowers—stuff that’s real.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows, “D minus,” he says shortly, and then stalks away without another word.

“Ouch,” Boyd shakes his head at Derek.

“What? What’s wrong with that?”

“Man, I don’t know whether to hit you over the head, or wait for Stiles to do it.”

Derek shoves at his arm, stands to greet Erica as she comes across to them, “If I wake up in the hospital I’ll know it was one of you, at least.”

“That wasn’t quite what I meant,” Boyd murmurs.

Derek steps on his toes.

*

“Remember when we did normal things at work?” Isaac takes the end of the string Derek hands to him, sticks it low on the wall and straightens up.

“Nope,” Derek dusts his hands off, having attached his own end of string and toes it to check the tension. “This’ll show them.”

“You’re obsessing,” Isaac warns, waving a lollipop in Derek’s face, “ _Obsessing_.”

“I am _not_. This shit has got to stop, though.”

“Why does it bother you so much? Erica’s the curator and she digs it.”

“Because! It’s my job to look after this place, and I’m being mocked!”

“I think someone just wants attention,” Isaac shrugs, “Wants us to notice them.”

“You— _notice_ them? They want us to notice them _desecrating_ art?”

Isaac smirks, “I thought half this shit wasn’t art to you.”

Derek shrugs, “The moustaches were pretty artistic.”

“I’ll be sure to let Banksy know when you hunt him down and bring him to justice.”

“It’s not Banksy!”

“I’d like it to be Banksy,” Isaac flicks at the next set of string they attach to the stairs leading to the first floor, “I think he’s pretty dope.”

“Dope,” Derek echoes, “Dope.”

“Yeah, and food for thought. I’d go see his shit in London.”

“Take Stiles,” Derek says drily, “As I, apparently, wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between regular graffiti and art.”

“Jesus, I didn’t even say his name,” Isaac mutters, leaping the bottom three steps before Derek can protest.

“Alright,” he grabs his bag from behind the desk, salutes Derek, “Good luck with being a crazy person.”

“I’m not crazy,” Derek insists, “I just want to keep the gallery safe!”

“From Banksy,” Isaac says flatly, “Who’s making us money, and providing thought provoking art.”

“Yep,” Derek stubbornly insists, flicking open his practise test book, “Exactly.”

Isaac slaps a hand on the desk in goodbye, and Derek pretends it didn’t make him flinch a little.

He’s so damn jumpy.

He needs to get a grip.

At one thirty, he pauses from going over his test answers, and stretches his legs whilst watching the security cameras. There’s no movement anywhere, and when he sits back down, he shuts his eyes and ponders art.

Derek’s always preferred art, if he’s allowed to call it that, to be visually beautiful, something he can admire. He’s always been a physical person, needs things in front of him to touch, to see, to smell—he can’t be doing with metaphysical questions, or trying to explain why Tracy Emin’s messy bedroom is considered a masterpiece.

He and Boyd joined Scott and the Sheriff to go and view Stiles’ final pieces last year at college. He liked those, liked the bold colors and lines, liked that he could see Stiles in front of his canvas, bringing the picture to life, his fingers gripping his paintbrush tightly, eyes intent on his work, on giving it vibrancy and making it beautiful.

Stiles’ work gave Derek an insight into Stiles.

He supposes that’s his favorite kind of art; stuff he understands, can relate to, _enjoy_ even.  

Derek must fall asleep thinking about Stiles; something he refuses to admit later, especially when he’s seething with rage at the fact he missed the damn vandal again.

When he wakes, there’s confetti slowly falling from the ceiling of each floor, and it takes him an hour to get into the ventilation system and get it to stop.

Erica adds injury to insult when she insists they keep it on for as long as the confetti lasts. The gallery is bursting with visitors all day. Derek spends most of the afternoon trying valiantly not to fall asleep, and only rouses when Stiles appears, waving coffee at him.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Derek nods warily, “You come by to call me a heathen?”

Stiles shoves the coffee at him, face a mixture of impatient and apologetic.

“I totally overreacted,” he says quietly, fingers messing with his sketchpad as soon as they’re free of the coffee cup. “I shouldn’t have pushed you, everyone sees art differently.”

“I get it,” Derek interrupts quickly, “And, it’s not a big deal.”

“It is, though,” Stiles runs a hand through his hair, looks at him with a funny expression on his face Derek can’t read. After a moment of intense staring, he sighs, glances around, “So, did you like the latest installation?”

Derek snorts, “I think Erica wants to give our Banksy a paycheck.”

“I don’t think that’s what they’re trying to achieve,” Stiles says faintly, looking back up at Derek, “What did _you_ think?”

Derek shrugs, “’S’pretty.”

“Not as offensive as the bright pink pool?”

“No,” Derek almost laughs, “I don’t know how they had the time to do that, I was here all night.”

“Ways and means, my friend,” Stiles frowns at the floor, “Derek—”

“Derek!” Erica sails over, hair shaking out confetti as she moves, “I think there’s someone trying to steal a photograph on the top floor, could you go check it out?”

Nobody has ever actually tried to steal anything before, unless you count the time Scott and Stiles ‘borrowed’ a fire extinguisher to use against Derek last year in a _hilarious_ April Fool’s prank. Derek doesn’t count it.

“Seriously?”

“Mhm,” she taps her foot impatiently, glancing between them, “Could you?”

Derek eyes her warily, standing as he does so, “O…kay.”

“Great,” Erica grabs hold of Stiles’ arm, “Excuse us.”

There isn’t even anyone on the fourth floor when Derek gets there, fucking hell he’s being mocked by his own friends, now. See if Erica likes it when Derek refuses to cook for them all on Sunday night.

*

He gets a phone call on his day off, half asleep Derek groans down the phone, and can hear Boyd’s smile even as he’s talking. Boyd never smiles, this is obviously very bad.

“They did what now?”

“It’s you, man, you gotta come see it.”

“No, I’m not interested; Banksy’s your business today.”

“But, they’ve made _you_ art.”

Derek snaps awake, reaching for his watch, “What d’you mean? Am I—” he glances around, suddenly paranoid he’s going to be half naked in the middle of the gallery. His own walls look back at him, and he relaxes marginally, “Me?”

“Mmm, it’s kind of awesome. And, a little stalkery, but that’s up your alley anyway, with the staring and the staking out vandals.”

“I knew you secretly thought they were a vandal, too,” Derek hisses, shoving on his shoes.

“Erica keeps talking about them at dinner, they’re stealing my wife’s attention,” Boyd says sulkily, “I need you to come down here and work out who the fuck it is, so you can take them out and distract them. They obviously want something from you.”

“Here’s hoping it’s not my head on a plate, or my death,” Derek says drily.

“Uh huh,” Boyd hangs up with little concern.

Derek is glad he has friends that aren’t worried the vandal’s moved on from glitter footprints to possible death homages to Derek.

It’s certainly not a death homage. It’s… actually quite a beautiful painting of Derek. From the far end of the room, Derek can see his own fucking eyebrows, and his damn frown, but as he steps closer, he can see detail, the laughter lines around his eyes, the warmth in his eyes as he looks over the desk. He’s been painted in his uniform, and the piece is entitled, “Constant Vigilance.”

Huh.

He knows those paint lines. He knows there’s very few people that would see him this way. He thinks he might get the point, now.

At the bottom of the piece, there’s a post it note that reads **Derek’s Art**. Erica looks like she’s going to explode with happiness when she flies over to him.

“Do you like it?”

“I’m—” Derek sighs, “Did you know?”

“Know what?” Erica blinks innocently at him, “About the fact Stiles is ridiculously in love with you?”

“No,” Derek feels hot under the collar just thinking about _that_ , “This was all Stiles.”

“Oh, no,” she beams, squeezing his arm, “He told me yesterday.”

“He—why didn’t you say something?!”

“Because, he wanted to surprise you! He was just trying to tease you, and then you got all cross,” she rolls her eyes and pats his cheek, “In that way that you do. And, he told me he was going to stop, and I said he can’t for at least another six weeks because god, Derek, we’re getting so much business! And then he got upset and said you were all mad at him,” Erica rolls her eyes, “And, then I remembered he’s had a thing for you since school, so,” she shrugs, “I told him to tell you already.”

“He—” Derek feels faint. “He thinks I don’t get art. We can’t—I’m too old—his dad’s going to be my boss.”

“His dad helped us install this last night.”

“Oh,” Derek pulls a face, “This is weird.”

“Yeah, so?” Erica shrugs, “I proposed to Boyd when we were buying condoms.”

Derek opens his mouth to stop her, to remind her that that’s not the story they told at the wedding, but she ignores him.

“I realised there was only one person I ever wanted to consider condom choices with ever again, and asked him right there and then.”

Derek swallows hard.

“People are weird, Wreck, you’re weird, you get obsessed with things, you like math, you’ve known for years you like Stiles and you won’t make a move because of endless stupid excuses. And, he still wants you. If he’s not a keeper then none of us are. Besides,” she turns back to the painting, “It takes something special to make art like this.”

Derek makes a noise in the back of his throat, he can’t really find the words, right now.

He sits down at the desk, nodding wearily to Boyd—who informs him Derek’s painting’s his new wallpaper—and gets a punch for it, and stares across the room at his own face.

It’s terrifying.

Not his face.

Although, yeah, he’d agree he does look rather threatening most of the time.

But, the idea, the thing behind it, the fact that he could… shit he could do this, with Stiles. Stiles wants to. With Derek. Stiles likes him enough to paint him on a damn canvas and put it up for the world to see.

Holy fuck, Derek has to go see him, right the hell now.

“Finally,” Boyd mumbles as Derek swings on his jacket.

“Shut up!”

“Be safe,” Boyd adds.

Derek smirks, “What a _good_ proposal.”

Boyd narrows his eyes at him, “Fuck off, it was romantic. You and Stiles won’t even be able to talk, anyway.” He nods at the wall and Derek stills.

“Me and Stiles, fuck, there might be a—”

“Christ, man, there won’t be an anything if you don’t go find him and tell him.”

Derek nods determinedly, “Yeah.”

He swings round, and right into Stiles.

“God, I hope your sense of awareness gets better once you’re a cop,” Stiles huffs into Derek’s shoulder.

Derek feels his throat dry up, tugs at his jacket sleeves, “Funny.”

Stiles winks at him, shoves his hands in his pockets as he leans back on his heels, “Hey, so, whaddya think of the latest piece of vandalism? You think it was too much?”

Derek stares flatly back at him, and Stiles grins, wiggles his eyebrows, “You think they made the wooing clear enough, this time?”

“No,” Derek says casually, “Actually, I don’t think I got it.”

Stiles stops rocking on his heels, arches an eyebrow, “Oh, really?”

“Yep,” Derek shrugs, “Didn’t really see their point.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles narrows his eyes at him, “You got _no idea_ at all what they might be getting at. Not an inkling as to what they might have been implying, or why they might have only picked nights you worked, or why they might have made a real romantic fucking courtyard scene for you, only you yelled and spooked them, or why they picked fish to show they could be responsible and keep something alive and you gave them away!”

Derek feels the corners of his mouth twitch up, and Stiles catches it, “Oh, you fucker,” he cries, cheeks going an endearing pink before he turns away and up the stairs before Derek can stop him.

“You two… are the _worst_ ,” Boyd says from behind him.

Derek grins unabashedly to himself, follows Stiles upstairs. He grabs the damn top hat as he goes, swirls it round on his finger as he heads for the third floor window, where he knows Stiles will be sulking.

He makes for a very pretty picture, leaning against the window and staring down at the fading pink pool. Derek swallows again, suddenly more than a little afraid he could fuck this up.

“Hi,” he clears his throat, and Stiles spins round.

“You found me,” he points at Derek, “A plus detective work, we’ll make a cop of you, yet.”

 _We_ , Derek repeats to himself, and it sounds kind of… _wonderful_ , rolling around in his head.

He goes for casual, rolls the hat up his arm and then tosses it at Stiles.

Stiles catches it easily, “You’re not supposed to touch the art.”

Derek shrugs, “I don’t think Banksy’s gonna mind.”

“Banksy _will_ mind, Banksy is very particular about who the fuck touches his art.”

“Is he now?” Derek drawls, “Well, I best not touch _anything_ else.”

“Oh, he didn’t say that,” Stiles says quickly, “He wouldn’t mind you touching other stuff, I guess. Although, not his paintbrushes unless it’s to like… wash them for him, that’s an effort sometimes. And like… you can come and say hi when he’s working, I think he’d like that. Also, I don’t think he really wants to be called Banksy anymore, or like, anything other than his name.”

Derek nods slowly, feeling a grin spread across his face.

“Which is?”

“Stiles,” Stiles breathes out, “And, I realize that’s probably a pretty underwhelming reveal seeing as how I’ve been _obvious_ from day one, but, yeah, shit, I just—I didn’t know how else to get through to you. I wanted you to see me, to see my world, my art, my—I dunno, it seems stupid now.”

“It’s not stupid,” Derek insists, stepping up towards Stiles and revelling in the way Stiles lets him get closer. “I thought you were taking the piss.”

“I wasn’t,” Stiles sighs, “I was just trynna make an impact! I’ve been trying on and off since I was eight, dude. Although, it was less about wanting to like make you want my body and be alluring and shit till I was sixteen.”

“Alluring and shit.”

“Shut up, I’m an artist not a fucking poet.”

“Mmm.”

“Derek,” Stiles blinks across at him, eyes wide and earnest, “I’m—I’m all in, you know. In case, you thought I was too childish, or risky or—I don’t know, maybe you’re not into this. But, this was my masterpiece, ok? For you. I got a job from it and everything! I’m a very serious person, or, I can be.” He licks his lips, and Derek tracks the movement out of habit, out of want, desire, desperation making him ache. He’s done it for years, how did he not _see_.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see it,” he blurts out.

“Oh,” Stiles grins brightly, gets a fist in Derek’s jacket and yanks him in closer, “’S’ok, you got the message in the end, right?”

“You made me art,” Derek says softly, “I can’t paint or—do that creative stuff—”

“I don’t care,” Stiles keeps smiling, and it’s hard for Derek not to return it, “We don’t have to like all the same shit, I like you, for all the crazy, awesome, stubborn things that make you up. Derek, I totally—”

Derek cuts him off with a kiss, winding his arms around Stiles’ waist and saying everything he can’t put on a canvas in the way he knows how to best, physically, with his whole self.

He thinks Stiles gets the message.

*

Erica’s voice comes over the announcer ten minutes later, requesting the couple groping each other on the third floor leave before she makes them stay as they are for an explicit exhibition available to visitors after nine. Boyd takes the mic away from her. Derek takes Stiles home. Erica keeps the painting on display and refuses to sell it.


End file.
